This is the New Crap
by amaXdear
Summary: We all remember when Grissom and Catherine walked in on Greg rocking out to the Fight Song. Grissom let it slide once… Will he do so again? NO SHIP.


Summary: We all remember when Grissom and Catherine walked in on Greg rocking out to the Fight Song. Grissom let it slide once… Will he do so again? No ship.  
Rating: T for language. Blame Marilyn Manson, not me.  
Disclaimer: I do not own Greg, but I want to. I don't own anything else either, and the song featured is "This is the New Sh", owned by Marilyn Manson.

* * *

It was a slow day in the lab. Everyone except Grissom was on a case--Greg wasn't quite sure where Grissom was. But the most boring part was that none of the cases required DNA. Nick and Warrick were investigating a burglary-gone-bad, but the victim was shot. Once Greg confirmed that the blood belonged to the victim, he was done. Mandy was freaking out because they collected like five thousand prints, though. Catherine had taken Sara along to a supposed suicide in some crappy apartment on the edge of town. Lucky him, it was the one form of suicide that needed no DNA tests. Who stuck their heads in an oven these days, anyway? Totally old school.

Greg sighed dramatically, resting his chin in his hands. He quirked his head and read the labels on one of the machines until he had memorized the warning in English, Spanish, and French. Okay, he needed to find something else to do.

Hmm… There was a black Sharpie close by. Without thinking, Greg picked it up and started doodling on a pair of latex gloves. He snapped the gloves expertly as he put them on, and admired the black "nail polish" he now wore. Very rocker … but not perfect. Loving this new game, the bored lab teach shuffled through a box of crap until he found an old pair of goggles. Using his secret Sharpie horde, he drew on the lenses, until they wore enough eye liner to make Pete Wentz faint with jealousy.

Something still wasn't quite right, and Greg, never one to do any job half-assed, struggled to identify the problem. Aha! All rock stars needed a killer hairstyle. Greg's hair was beautiful, but it wasn't quite _rockstar_ enough. Luckily, Greg always kept spare hairgel around the lab. It was a piece of cake to slather his hands with gel and tame his curls into an impressive fohawk. All that was left was the music.

_**Everything has been said before  
There's nothing left to say anymore  
When it's all the same  
You can ask for it by name  
Babble babble bitch bitch  
Rebel rebel party party  
Sex sex sex and don't forget the "violence"  
Blah blah blah got your lovey-dovey sad-and-lonely  
Stick your STUPID SLOGAN in:  
Everybody sing along!  
Are you motherfuckers ready  
For the new shit?  
Stand up and admit,  
tomorrow's never coming.  
This is the new shit.**_

Oh yeah, this was music. Good ole' headbanging rock metal. Greg was really rocking out, dancing in his chair, spinning around the lab and drumming with a pair of unused swabs. If he could sing screamo, he would be singing along, but all he could do was mouth the words.

_**And now it's know who"  
I got the "you know what"  
I stick it "you know where"  
You know why, you don't care.  
And now it's "you know who"  
I got the "you know what"  
I stick it "you know where"  
You know why, you don't care.  
Babble babble bitch bitch  
Rebel rebel party party  
Sex sex sex and don't forget the--**_

"GREG." The music was suddenly off, but the chair was still spinning due to the awesome powers of inertia. Which meant that Greg spun slowly, oh so slowly, until he was staring at Grissom in the doorway. Oh, but it wasn't just Grissom. It was Grissom plus an entourage of college students out for a tour of the lab. Oh crap. He was in _so_ much trouble…

"Er, hi Grissom. Hi, kiddies." They were snickering, and Greg had the bright idea to take off the goggles and maybe hide his hands behind his back.

"This is Greg Sanders, our DNA tech. We like to keep Greg busy, because otherwise … well we never quite know what will happen. I thought we talked about the costumes, Greg."

"I prefer to think of them as accessories."

"Would you like to explain what you do here, Greg?" The phrase "while you still can" hung in the air.

"Sure. Um, CSIs collect DNA from suspects and sometimes from the scene and bring it to me. Sometimes they just give me evidence and I have to find DNA on it, and I find out whose it is with the help of my faithful friends here." He gestured vaguely at the machines cluttering the lab. "Sometimes we get lucky and find a match in CODIS, but only sex offenders have DNA on file, so other times I have to do more work. I also perform various odd jobs around the lab."

"Such as?" one of the more geeky kids asked. Greg instantly recognized him as a lab rat in the making.

"When the lab is understaffed, I work Trace Analysis sometimes. Um, I make coffee, and sometimes I become the focus of various experiments. In fact, I still have a bit of a rash from where Grissom here infected my foot with mildew."

The students all looked at Grissom, who was smiling at Greg in that way he had. "And thanks to that experiment, we got a conviction on a multiple murder case. Great job, Greg. Okay, we will be moving on now to meet Mandy, our Fingerprint Tech. Oh, and Greg," he paused. "No more Marilyn Manson."

"Aw come on, Griss --"

"If you can't keep it clean and quiet, then we have a problem, Greg. Sorry."

The band of geeks walked on, and Greg put his head in his hands. He sighed. "Warning: This machine is not to be placed near an active heat source. Advertencia: Esta máquina no debe ser colocada cerca de una fuente de calor activa. Avertissement : Cette machine ne doit pas être placée près d'une source de chaleur active…"

--

That's it. Just a funny little drabble that got caught after listening to "This is the New Sh" five times in a row. In case you didn't get it, at the end Greg is reciting the warning on the machines in English, Spanish, and French, in that order. Thank you, Dictionary . Com Translator!


End file.
